Because you pretended to like my playhouse. I tried to lock you in but my three year old body could not brace you back enough to make you stay.
Because you kept secrets in your suitcase during work trips. And I wanted to know what you kept in there. So I listened behind closed doors.
I would graze my hands over your face; prickly and the color of pumpkins. And I longed for you to stay home this time. Why would you need to go to work when it rained?
Because you took the chair we used to sit on when we played with cow puppets.
I still have one.
Because you were my dad, and I was your first child.
You showed up late to your mother's funeral. All because my stepmother was too busy mourning the loss of her iced coffee.
That's not the father that I used to try and lock in my playhouse.
Because you never called me back when i apologized for asking too much.
Because you left lied cheated manipulated and lost your daughter.
But still I can't bring myself to say it was your fault.
Maybe it was your brain tumor slowly ******* away at your morality. Maybe it was my inability to cope with catastrophe as a child. Maybe it was too much to be caught in a place you never wanted to be in.